Monday, 28 November 2016

The idea of Sunday Photo Fiction is
to create a story / poem or something using around about 200 words with the
photo as a guide. Please try to keep it as close to the 200 words as possible.
It doesn’t have to be centre stage in the story, I have seen some where the
placement is so subtle, the writer states where it is.

Wednesday, 9 November 2016

Debb our host from Inner Sunshine has given us a one word
prompt this week - she says:

Hello! This prompt is the first of its kind on my
blog. I am asking us to write a piece onORANGE, ANYTHING
ORANGE! This could be about the colour or fruit; use
whatever form you’d prefer, like a story, poem, composition, fable,
dissertation (just kidding on the last one)…

I won’t even have a word count limit. Here
is your chance to use your wings and fly (write) with freedom! Any
questions go to:

The whispering started late that
night. A mumbling, a slight hissing
sound always to the left of her head.
Daphne shook her head and made her way up the stairs. She shouldn’t have watched that late night
horror film all by herself.

She’d begged Alf not to go to the
pub that night but he’d just laughed at her silly ways. He was captain of the darts team and they had
a big match on that night. A deep
rivalry existed between their local pub, The Royal Oak, and The Orange Tree pub from the neighbouring village. This was the final for the darts league and
very important to both teams as they were neck and neck in the league table.

Alf gave Daphne a kiss, patted
her ample behind with love taps and told her not to wait up. He’d get a lift home with a mate.

Helping her grandson carve an orange Jack O’ Lantern that afternoon
they’d made up ghoulish tales, his 12 year old imagination becoming more and
more macabre with heads and limbs being chopped off by monstrous demons.

Now Daphne’s imagination became
overactive not helped by hearing every creak that their old tied-cottage made
as the heat dissipated from the rafters and the wooden beams contracted.

She heard the sibilant hissing
again as she turned out the bathroom light and made her way down the landing to
their bedroom. A loud bang frightened
her out of her skin as she quickly covered herself with her duvet and snuggled
down in the bed.

Daphne. Daphne. Daaphneee….

She woke with a start, the green
luminesce figures on the clock radio denoted 3.00 a.m. She reached out for Alf but his side of the
bed was cold. She sat up with a start,
something was wrong, terribly wrong. He should have been home hours ago.

Daphne. Daphne.
Daaphnee – help me please……

The voice was calling her
again. Her heart hammering in her chest
Daphne slipped her furry slippers on, wrapped herself in her candlewick
dressing gown, switching on lights as she crept downstairs, gathering her
courage she checked every room.

They were cold and empty, the
heating was on a timer and not due to come on until 6.00 a.m. She shivered and then froze to the spot in
the kitchen. Along with her name being
called she heard a scratching sound at the back door.

Gingerly Daphne unlocked the
door, pulling the handle she slowly opened the door.

‘About time, girl. Goodness you took your time waking up!’

Alf was shivering with the cold,
his teeth chattering as the warmth of the alcohol he had imbued earlier on in
the evening had left his bloodstream. Waving his mate off he then realised
he’d forgotten his house keys.

Daphne was tempted to leave him
out there in the cold for giving her such a fright. Then she remembered the old
adage, revenge is a dish best served cold.

She’d bide her time and get Alf
back for this, maybe not today, maybe not tomorrow but one day soon, when he
was least expecting it, she’d pay him back.

Practice, practice,
practice. That was the mantra that kept
going round in Rachelle’s head. Her
dance teacher would emphasize those words banging her silver topped cane on the
floor as she pronounced them in her thick accent.

Practice, practice, practice,
Rachelle heard her mother’s voice, its lilting tone musical, a smile at the end
of the third word. The litany would go
on encouragingly as Rachelle spun round and round the living room floor.

Practice, practice, practice, her
father’s deep toned voice reached far into her heart as the words echoed around
the chambers of her pulsing organ. She danced
on the freshly mown lawn that was smooth and weed free, no stones would dare to
breach the earth to trip her up when her dad was around.

Practice, practice, practice,
sneered her brother, his lip curling up in distaste. That’s all you do. Why can’t you play with me instead? At six years old Tommy thought dancing was
for sissies. He refused to watch her, he
refused to dance with her.

Rachelle packed in every spare
minute of her day to make her steps the best she could. She sat ramrod straight
in the classroom, her feet and toes pointed elegantly towards the front of the
class. Her arms poised over her exercise
book, her fingers holding the pen lightly, her hands making classic dance
shapes.

Outside in the street, wearing
her tutu and ballet shoes she would practice and twirl, the sun on her upturned
face, the gentle breeze trying to stir her stiff hair, held in place by cans of
hairspray.

All her hard work and practice
was going to pay off one day. Rachelle
was determined she would see her name up in lights. That strip of advertising neon lights on the
corner of the busiest street in London would proclaim her to be the best dancer
in the world. Her concerts would be sold
out, her retinue would pamper to her every wish.

But then in the cold light of day
her dreams, daydreams or night dreams, came crashing down. Now she had to be responsible. Now she had to help her family. Tommy had grown up into a graffiti
artist. Not something she was
proud. Not something her parents could
cope with. Many times she bailed him out
of jail as he was arrested for defacing a brick wall.

Tommy had a dream as well. He also heard a voice saying, practice,
practice, practice. So he practised his
art wherever he could. No art school for
him, the fees were too high, so wherever he saw a blank space he practiced his
art.

Tommy’s inner voice drew him to
open spaces to practice, much as Rachelle practiced in open spaces, hers was
benign but his was malignant according to some people.

About Me

I’m a woman of a certain age with grown up children who have children of their own.
I was lucky enough to find love a second time and have been happily married to my wonderful Dave for 11years now.
Having had some health issues I appreciate my family more and more each day.